Feathers

I feel the heat of their colors against my skin. 
The feathers are well-hidden in my sleeves,
but I am afraid they will show up as a splash
of blue on my neck, a dot of green
on my cheek. I have the kind of empathy
that makes other creatures’ maladies
display themselves on my body.

He intrudes on the quiet I have chosen for myself,
a combination of silk beneath an iron
and the smoothing of my rough white sheets.
I hide the feathers in a drawer. Some are left
loose on the table, for his fingertips.

The moment he enters his leaving
is inevitable. I weave myself a sparse wreath
made from the feathers he touched. I vow
never to take it off and wake to peacocks
deep within the valley.